


Wherein Serpents Are Coiled

by grumblingdragon



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (will add tags as the story progresses), Canon-Typical Racism, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Slavery, Other: See Story Notes, all in the backstory folks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-22 09:26:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30036543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumblingdragon/pseuds/grumblingdragon
Summary: With the Inquisition so new and only having recently taken up residence in Skyhold, the organisation is bound to attract all sorts of people. Val and his mercenary partner Lirene are short on coin and don't mind fighting under a banner - the Inquisition is their best option with the Breach looming over their heads and rumours of time-defying Tevinter magisters and archdemons running around. Val, however, has a few secrets of his own, and the Inquisition will be the ultimate test to see how long he can keep them.(OC-centric story with canon characters thrown in for some flavour - if that's your jam, this is the fic for you!)
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus (background)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Preface: I wrote this for myself primarily, and then my friends wanted to read it, so I put it here for an easier format. This is UN-BETA'D - all mistakes are my own. I just wanted to play around with a story concept of a character who isn't the Inquisitor, tossed in an interesting past for some flavour, and then this was born I guess??
> 
> All original characters are my own, and hopefully don't cause any eye rolls. Writing dynamic and fully-fleshed-out original OCs is hard but I am open to critiques and suggestions if something seems off or there's a huge plot hole.
> 
> Let me know if I make any egregious errors in the DA canon or there's a glaringly obvious spelling/grammar issue :) 
> 
> Enjoy!

_My arrogance knows no bounds  
And I will make no peace today  
And you shall be so lucky  
To find a woman like me_

_Today neither will the East claim me  
nor the West admit me  
Today my belly is a well  
wherein serpents are coiled  
ready to poison the world,  
and you should be so lucky._

_All I have is my arrogance  
I will teach it to lean back  
and smoke a cigarette in your faces,  
and you should be so lucky_

_No I will make no peace  
even though my hands are empty  
I will talk as big as I please  
I will be all or nothing  
And I will jump before the heavy trucks  
And I will saw off my leg at the thigh  
before I bend one womanly knee_

_I am poison  
And you will drink me  
And you should be so lucky._  
\- _Ishtar Awakens in Chicago_ , Mohja Kahf

—

_Eluviesta/Cloudreach, 9:41 Dragon_

“The Inquisition. You’re joking.”

“Only until they patch up that hole in the sky!” Lirene added quickly once she saw Val’s sour expression. “Besides, it’s not like we’re swimming in coin right now. They’ll pay us better than most nobles will, with all that mage and templar shit going on. It’s good money and that’s more than we can ask for.”

She had a point, as much as Val hated to admit it. Both of them had been a bit embarrassed upon realising they couldn’t even afford rooms in the tavern the previous night - though that was more due to prices hiking up (since they were in the middle of a war, for fuck’s sake) than lack of funds. Sleeping on a hay pile in the local stables had been the sobering wake-up call that they needed money, and few were risking hiring mercenaries from outside of Ferelden right now. Everyone from Orlais to Rivain was at each other’s throats, and nothing brewed distrust like a mercenary from another country. 

“You realise they’ll background check us, right? They’re the _Inquisition_ , they _inquisit_. That doesn’t bother you?”

Lirene shrugged her shoulders. 

“Got nothing to hide that’ll put me out of a job. Look, if you hate it, we can always get out of there. It’s not a permanent position.”

Val crossed his arms. He was grasping at straws now, yes, but he didn’t like the idea of being cooped up inside a hold full of soldiers, templars and mages who could sniff out a bad apple from thirty leagues away. Even though the Inquisitor had apparently backed the rebel mages holed up in Redcliffe a few weeks prior, that almost made it worse - magic users were extra sensitive to other magic users, and Val didn’t fancy getting caught up in some magical spat if he could avoid it. 

“Look,” Lirene wheedled, holding up the Inquisition poster she’d pilfered from the tavern the night before; it had sparked the conversation in the first place. “They won’t even care you’re an elf. The bloody _Inquisitor_ is an elf.”

She was right; all the copies of the Inquisition posters they’d seen so far had been artistic renditions of what must have been the Inquisitor, some Dalish elf looking suspiciously peppy with the words _‘an Inquisition for everyone!’_ printed below him. One way to encourage diversity among the ranks, Val supposed. But Lirene had it easy - a warrior hailing from the Free Marches, and a _human_ warrior no less, would have no trouble waltzing up to Skyhold’s gates and letting herself in without so much as a whisper thrown her way. But Val? A knife-ear with a heavy Tevinter accent and a magestaff? Forget it - he wouldn’t be allowed so much as a toe within the Inquisition fortress without being surrounded by spies and interrogators wanting to know where he came from and how long he’d be staying. 

“I know,” he said as patiently as he could manage, “but I.. I just don’t like the look of this. Maybe you could go and then send me a letter..?”

“Absolutely not,” Lirene replied firmly, in the tone she used when Val knew he couldn’t argue anymore. “We go together or not at all. It will be a fun learning experience, working with all those soldiers. I heard Cullen Rutherford is the army Commander, too!”

 _Oh, for fuck’s sake_. Val’s expression darkened and he rolled his eyes. Everyone south of Antiva had heard the former Knight Captain's name being dropped after the debacle in Kirkwall. Just one more human to avoid. 

“ _Fine_ , we’ll go. But if anything seems off, I’m leaving, whether you want to come with or not.”

Lirene smiled serenely at him and began saddling their horses for the journey. 

—

Many, _many_ things were off, but Val was strongarmed into coming anyway.

At least the guards at the gate didn’t shoo him away; they took one look at Lirene in her full-plate, slightly bloodstained armour all but dragging Val along with her and let them in without a fuss. Val supposed the Inquisition got a lot of people like them; pilgrims looking for a fast way to make some money and try to save the world while they were at it. Though the Breach, as he learned everyone called it, was stable for now, Skyhold still looked like any other army camp he’d seen - soldiers running drills in the courtyard, nobles and their entourages demanding audiences with some diplomat or another, healers by the tenfold tending to the wounded. The place was a well-oiled fortress, though Val suspected they weren’t used to the numbers they currently had - there were far less servants running around distributing blankets and rations as there were militia using them, and the Skyhold tavern, The Herald’s Rest, was packed almost every hour of the day with tired-looking mercenaries and hopeful bards trying to rake in some coin. He wondered what exactly they were prepping for - rumours were circulating all over Thedas, from another archdemon bringing a sixth Blight to an ancient Tevinter magister returning from a forgotten era to set the world on fire. While it might have seemed ridiculous to some, Val had to admit he wouldn’t be surprised if some of the rumours had truth to them - there weren’t many things in the world that could cause unrest so spectacularly.

He and Lirene were directed, to Val’s surprise, to Spymaster Leliana first; the guards, though accommodating, had noticed Val’s staff after all and clearly weren’t keen on taking any chances with an apostate, which was… an interesting choice, considering the amount of what were all technically apostates milling around Skyhold. Since it was just the two of them, one of the Spymaster’s agents claimed, it would make more sense to just interview both of them now and save a lot of time and hassle down the road trying to track them down somewhere in the fortress. Val tried his best to seem agreeable and polite, though he couldn’t hide his nerves entirely as they followed the agent into Skyhold’s great hall and through a side door that brought them to the base of a large rotunda, above which Val could hear the telltale screeching and cawing of messenger ravens. 

Down on the ground floor, however, was something he was not expecting - the walls of the rotunda were beautifully painted with scenes depicting both what he assumed to be the Conclave explosion and several murals he couldn’t quite place, including a figure holding a small orb. There were… a lot of orbs, actually. It was weird. Weirder still was the tall, bald elf finishing one of said murals. He was dressed in very shabby clothes and stood with his back to Val, working on some small detail in front of him. At the sound of Val, Lirene and Leliana’s agent entering, he turned to eye up the new arrivals. He didn’t look like any elf Val had seen - his face was longer, more angular, and he was far taller than any Dalish or city elf. When he spotted Val’s _vallaslin_ , his face did this odd thing where it half-twisted into a disappointed sneer, then returned to a carefully neutral expression. Oh, so he was one of _those_ elves. Great. The agent didn’t look too fond of him either; she gave the elf as wide a berth as possible and only spared him a polite little incline of her head as she ushered Lirene and Val past. The elf nodded in reply and swiftly returned to his painting.

Val and Lirene were led up another flight of stairs, past what Val assumed to be the library, which was packed with mages and linguists translating various texts. Up more stairs and they finally arrived at the top of the rotunda, surrounded by messengers and spies ferrying letters back and forth and a human woman in the centre of it all, bearing the Inquisition emblem across the chestpiece of her clothes. Spymaster Leliana, then. She spotted Val and Lirene approaching and beckoned them over to seats in front of her desk. 

“I understand you are both mercenaries looking for work with the Inquisition?” She asked in the most neutral, unrevealing tone Val had ever heard. He glanced over at Lirene who gave the Spymaster the toothiest grin she could muster. 

“Yes, ma’am. We were operating out of the Free Marches before... all of this, but figured the best place we could be was here.”

“Indeed.” Leliana looked unimpressed, but pulled out a quill and parchment anyway. “May I have your names? We conduct background checks on every hired fighter here. Standard procedure to make sure we can use your skills in the more beneficial way possible.” _And check you aren’t secretly working for the enemy_ , Val thought to himself - he was sure that part went unspoken, by the look Leliana was giving them both. Lirene went first once they’d both introduced themselves, briefly outlining her background as a member of Starkhaven’s City Guard, and then her work as a mercenary on the coast near Ostwick. She cited a few choice references and casually dropped the names of some very influential Marcher nobles, including the Vaels and the Trevelyans, which Leliana promised to follow up on, and then her interview was pretty much finished. Leliana directed her towards Commander Cullen’s office to get assigned some duties while her details were verified, and then turned to Val once Lirene had left. 

“My agents tell me you are an apostate.” 

Val nodded; no point in trying to deny that one, seeing as he was literally carrying a staff. He kept his body language carefully relaxed, not wanting to give away too much of his nerves. 

“We have many mages here,” Leliana continued, “and I am sure we can find a place for you once your background is checked. Where are you from originally, Valerian?”

Val wrung his hands and stared at anywhere but the Spymaster’s face; better to feign nervousness about his country than about what magic he used. 

“I was born in Arlathan Forest - in Tevinter, ma’am.” 

Leliana’s expression didn’t change much, but he saw one of her brows lift delicately. 

“Tevinter? Ah, I can hear the accent now. You bear Dalish markings - were you from a clan?”

“Originally, yes. Clan Morlyn. But, ah - I was a slave for most of my early adult life.”

There was a brief pause as Leliana sized him up - the visible scars on his body, the slightly gaunt cheekbones, the way Val stood so still he was almost a statue. She hummed. 

“You are clearly not a slave any longer, but how long did that period last?”

“Five years, but I doubt there will be any records of that - er, my master practised blood magic quite frequently and kept few copies of his slave purchases, since he used a lot of them in.. um. His blood magic.” Val forced himself to shiver at that, looking down contritely at his hands. Leliana looked sympathetic, at least, so he was probably doing a good job.

“I see. I will have my agents try and find those records nonetheless, in case some have survived. What can you offer to the Inquisition, Valerian?”

“I’m very proficient at magic, ma’am - I trained within my clan and once I left Tevinter, so it’s my main form of combat. I can read, write and speak several languages as well.”

“Which languages?” Good, she wasn’t interested in what kind of magic, at least for now. 

“Tevene, Rivaini and Elvhen, and I know a bit of Antivan and Ancient Tevene. The basics, at least - I doubt I could translate anything for you in those two,” he added quickly, more for his own benefit than Leliana’s. Hopefully she wouldn’t have him poring over indecipherable texts in the library all day. 

“Orlesian?”

“Unfortunately not, ma’am. I never worked in Orlais.”

“Pity. What about your combat experience? Have you been a mercenary very long?”

“Five years as well. I started in Rivain, and then travelled around Antiva and the Free Marches. I can hold my own in a fight, if that’s what you mean, and I have several references from Rivain and Antiva I can put you in contact with if you’d like to see my work.”

Leliana nodded once, making more notes while somehow maintaining direct eye contact with Val from across her desk. He found it unsettling. 

“Very well. That is all for now, but I may call you and your partner back for further questioning if my people find anything of note. In the meantime, go speak with Commander Cullen and find a place to sleep for the night; I will have someone find you later to assign further tasks should your services be required. I don’t expect it will take more than a fortnight.” An obvious dismissal; Val stood and bowed slightly before turning and heading back down the rotunda stairs the way he came. He realised too late that he probably should have asked Leliana where Cullen actually _was_. Instead, he resolved to ask the prickly-looking elf at the rotunda’s base for directions. He had moved from his painting to a desk in the centre of the space, poring over some hefty tome and making notes. Val cleared his throat politely and the elf glanced up, clearly irritated at being interrupted from his work. 

“May I help you?” Oh, his voice was weird, too; every syllable was carefully enunciated, in the way people who didn’t speak Common as their first language tended to do. Val filed that information away for later. 

“I’m looking for Commander Cullen’s office. Which way is that?” The elf sighed and pointed at a door opposite him. 

“Follow the path along until you come to an adjoining door. The Commander’s office is inside.”

“ _Ma serannas_ ,” Val replied, testing the waters. The elf looked unsurprised, but pleased, if his expression was anything to go by. 

“ _Asahnas'ea nar’melin'es_?” It took Val a moment to translate - it had been a while since he’d held a conversation in Elvhen, with someone who obviously spoke it fluently and frequently. He managed to figure out that the elf was asking for his name. 

“Valerian.”

The elf tilted his head, a little confused at the obviously not-Elvhen name Val provided. 

“But you bear Dalish markings. Are you not Dalish?” Oh, thank the Maker, he switched to Common. 

“I was renamed. I like Valerian better.”

Again, the curious look. The elf laced his fingers together and leaned forward. 

“Renamed?”

“It’s complicated.” A small smile graced the elf’s features. 

“Not too complicated for me, I hope.”

“I was a slave,” Val said flatly, hoping to just be done with the conversation. He’d already had to explain this to one person today; he was not going to go into it again. The elf’s expression darkened. 

“ _Ir abelas_. In Tevinter, I presume. Your accent,” he clarified, at Val’s frown. Val nodded. 

“Yes.”

“I am curious, then, why you choose to keep this name and not the name your clan gave you. Would it not hold bitter memories?” Damn, this elf was nosy. Val pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“It’s my name, and I’ve made it my own. My old one tended to make other elves uncomfortable, anyway. I really should be going,” he added before the elf could ask more invasive questions. He nodded in response, seemingly placated for now. 

“Very well. My name is Solas, since you have given me your name. It is good to find another of the People who speaks Elvhen. I’ve found that few Dalish know little more than the basics.” That stung a little; though it was true that some Dalish clans didn’t speak Elvhen on a day-to-day basis, Val’s clan had actually made an effort to keep their language alive, and Solas’ offhand comment made him bristle. He bit his tongue to keep from saying something he’d regret and gave Solas a tight-lipped smile. 

“Nice meeting you, Solas. We’ll probably see more of each other if I stick around.” And with that, he turned on his heel and headed in the direction of Cullen’s office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on this fic so far:  
> 1\. The story begins post-Haven, with a bit of timeline wiggle room. I am assuming that at this point Skyhold has basically become a pilgrimage site for both the devout and those wishing to join the Inquisition’s military forces. 
> 
> 2\. Tevene is a spoken language and is different from Ancient Tevene. For narrative purposes I have separated regular Tevene into colloquial/casually spoken Latin and Ancient Tevene into formal Latin. Apologies for grammatical errors. 
> 
> 3\. It’s not super clear from the DA lore, so for the purposes of the story Elvhen is spoken regularly by more isolated Dalish clans, and less so by the clans that interact/trade with humans. Grammatically it is different from Ancient Elvhen, so even practised speakers of the language will have a little trouble understanding Solas or other ancient elves due to regional accent and linguistic differences and vice versa (I’ve chosen to interpret this as being the equivalent of using modern English versus something like Middle English)
> 
> 4\. Further notes on language: I used FenxShiral’s elvhen lexicon for all of my Elvhen, but the Latin for Tevene isn’t correctly gendered since that’s way too complicated for me, a simple history student who took 1 class of linguistics in 2019. You can either plug it into an online Latin translator or see the index of translations in the end notes.
> 
> 5\. The Inquisitor chose to ally with the mages in Redcliffe, but there are still a few Templars who either left the bulk of the Order or remained from Haven. There are also a number of soldiers who left the Templar Order before Corypheus fully took over, the majority of which are under Cullen’s command. The Inquisitor also allies with the Grey Wardens instead of banishing them, and saves Hawke in the Fade (leaving Stroud - Alistair is King of Ferelden). Most of this is not covered in depth in the story itself, so I threw it in here. 
> 
> 6\. The Inquisitor is a male Dalish elf (mage), and is romancing Dorian. 
> 
> 7\. For the purpose of the story, my Inquisitor often hires reputable mercenaries/mercenary bands to support Inquisition forces, particularly in scouting work or skirmishes the actual Inquisitor doesn’t have time/resources for (see war table assignments). Prospective mercenaries are thoroughly background-checked by Leliana and her spies and are not permitted to do field work until they’ve been properly verified. Standard procedure is to allow between 1-3 weeks for a mercenary or mercenary group to be background-checked unless they are famous enough that their activities are well-known (ie. the Chargers), and not all hirelings end up on the front lines - some are utilised for their other skills (e.g. in linguistics, espionage, diplomacy, etc.) if the general military force has enough people at any given time. Alternatively different people with different skills may be appointed to specific sub-sections of the Inquisition’s military (healers/medics, skirmishers, shock troops, captains of units, the people who collect bodies and equipment after battles, siege experts, explosives, etc.)
> 
> 8\. To expand on the previous point, the same procedure is used for prospective mages, linguists, diplomats, and anyone who is not a regular soldier who wishes to join the Inquisition (Cullen is assigned to any and all soldiers and generally the requirements are more lax as well, to make his job easier). The system is entirely based on who will be most useful where, and which units require the most support. Spies, on the other hand, go through a far more arduous process of interviews and background checks and Leliana is very selective with whom she chooses. Josephine often handles diplomats and linguists to better spread the work between the three of them and generally the Inquisitor doesn’t get involved in the assignment of troop roles and positions unless it’s for a particular agent.
> 
> Translations:  
> \- Ma serannas = my thanks/thank you  
> \- Asahnas'ea nar’melin’es? = what is your name?  
> \- Ir abelas = I am sorry


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, not beta'd. Let me know about any canon lore errors or spelling/grammar.   
> Also, comments will make me cry with joy, please leave them if you liked something!

Meeting with Cullen was awkward - the former Knight Captain was clearly not used to speaking to non-Circle mages on a daily basis and with such frequency. Val gave him an abridged version of what he’d told Leliana and Cullen informed him that he’d likely be working on a team of other mercenaries and soldiers whenever the Inquisitor needed a larger force to back him up on missions. From Cullen’s tone, it didn’t sound like that happened often, and when Val pried a little more, he learned that Inquisitor Lavellan often scouted ahead with a group of his 'Inner Circle’ before the bulk of Inquisition forces followed after him. More useful information. Val offered his services as a scout instead, and Cullen promised to reconvene after Leliana had contacted Val’s references further north, and then dismissed the mage so he could get back to his work.

Val vaguely remembered the direction of the Herald’s Rest tavern, and made his way there, assuming Lirene would be hanging around the area and already making friends. He assumed correctly, and found his friend seated at the back of the tavern, talking with a couple of other humans and a dwarf animatedly. She smiled and waved him over, and after a moment’s hesitation he joined her. 

“This is Valerian,” Lirene said as he took a seat, throwing an arm around his shoulders; Val cringed good-naturedly and shrugged her off. “He and I have been working together for - hm, I reckon it’s been about two years now?”

“Just under two years, don’t push it,” Val muttered, and Lirene and her companions burst into laughter. Someone handed him a mug of ale and he sipped at it while conversation carried on around him. Val had never been a heavy drinker and didn’t intend to start now; alcohol thinned the blood and significantly impacted his more… unorthodox magical practises. Best to keep it to a minimum. Lirene and her new friends, however, had no such reservations and by supper time they were well on their way to getting thoroughly smashed. They all briefly stopped to sober up with a bowl of stew and some bread, before continuing with their drinking and stories. The other people Lirene had befriended, Val learned, were called Krem, Stitches, and Rocky - members of what Val quickly realised were the Chargers. Val didn’t even bother trying to hide how starstruck he was - the Chargers were practically celebrities in the circles he frequented, the company a household name among any mercenary worth ten sovereigns. Though their commander, The Iron Bull, was apparently indisposed with one of the tavern maids, the remainder of the Chargers were milling around Skyhold here and there. Krem in particular picked up on Val’s accent almost immediately, and launched into Tevene.

“ _Ubi sunt tibi a_?” 

_Where are you from?_

Val eyed up the mercenary, noting his armour, his accent and the way he held himself. Not a mage, from what Val could tell, and probably not highborn either - safe territory, for now.

“ _Ego… ego ex Arlathan Silva, ad occidentem_..?” Maker, his Tevene was rusty. He hoped he was actually saying he was from Arlathan Forest in the west of Tevinter, and not something horribly offensive. Krem seemed to understand. 

“How long were you in Tevinter?”

_Andraste’s tits, not this again._

“Five years in Minrathous. Got lucky, I suppose.” 

“Ugh, Minrathous is one of the worst. I’d avoid Vyrantium too, though - half the mages there are pissed they don’t have whatever they think the capital has, and they take it out on the Soporati.” 

Val raised an eyebrow. 

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

Krem seemed to realise the redundancy of what he said and snorted at himself, shaking his head in embarrassment. Val and Lirene spent the rest of the evening trading stories good-naturedly, though the former of the two kept his cards close to his chest - he had no doubt any and all of this would be relayed to The Iron Bull in the morning. Instead, Val used the time to wheedle more information out of Krem and the two other Chargers, and though there was no doubt that they noticed his prying, they were willing to spill a few juicy details about the Inquisitor and the Inquisition itself. A few of the more interesting tidbits Val committed to memory as best he could; Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast was a devout Andrastian, naturally suspicious and best avoided without a valid excuse to speak with her; Spymaster Leliana could sniff out a bad lie at fifty paces and had no qualms about personally shoving a dagger in someone’s back instead of having her agents do it; _the_ Varric Tethras, renowned author of Hard in Hightown and close friend of the Champion of Kirkwall, had apparently inserted himself into the Inquisition and hadn’t hesitated to get chummy with Inquisitor Lavellan; and everyone was freaked out by Solas. 

Krem, Stitches and Rocky were shadier about the Inquisitor himself, which was understandable but didn’t stop Val from trying to glean some information. He learned that Inquisitor Lavellan was a mage, like himself, from a Dalish clan in the Free Marches. The elf had apparently stepped right out of the Fade in what was left of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and Val was warned - several times, by different people - to _not_ refer to him as the 'Herald of Andraste' unless he wanted to instantly lose approval from the man, because that was a bit of a touchy subject for a Dalish elf who had made it clear from the start of the Inquisition that he followed his own gods. Val could understand that, being Dalish himself. He doubted he’d have lasted a minute in Lavellan’s position, having to grin and bear all the simpering Chantry mothers vying for his favour as Andraste’s ‘chosen one’. 

By the time midnight rolled around and some of the tavern-goers were heading off to the barracks, Val had a good idea of who to befriend and who to avoid during his time here. He had no intention of ever actually meeting the Inquisitor, of course - that sort of thing got one noticed, and Val would rather eat his own magestaff than be an object of further interest for any of Lavellan’s immediate Inner Circle. But those on the outskirts of that Circle… the Chargers, the servants who brought supplies to and from the Great Hall, other mercenaries or soldiers who had been part of the Inquisition since its formation.. those could be useful wells of knowledge, and good allies to fall back on if his past ever came into question. Though Val doubted Leliana would actually find anything noteworthy other than what he’d already told her, the possibility was still there - there were things even Lirene didn’t know, things he’d kept hidden away and had no desire to drag into the light. The Spymaster would have to be a literal mind-reader to figure those secrets out, and for all her considerable skill, Val highly doubted that was the case. So he followed Lirene out of the Herald’s Rest satisfied with his gossip haul, and made his way towards the barracks. 

—

When Lirene flushed uncomfortably and explained to him that there actually weren’t any free beds in the barracks for elves at the moment and that no one in her own, majority _human_ , barracks wanted him in there with them, Val wasn’t surprised. He gave her a little pat on the shoulder, and spent about ten minutes convincing her that no, it wasn’t her fault that the other humans were making it weird about sleeping near an elf and that yes, she was doing a wonderful job and should get some sleep herself before the ale in her body eventually knocked her out cold. Speaking of, Skyhold was chilly enough during the day and Val, accustomed to blistering Tevinter nights, was not enjoying the sudden onslaught of biting winds and torrential rains that assaulted the keep once night fell. He found himself taking shelter in the Great Hall, which was being warmed by a multitude of torches and braziers along the walls. There were a few people, all human, walking back and forth between doors on either side of the hall, and some lingering in the chairs along the walls as close to the fires as they could safely be. Val remembered the way to the rotunda and decided Solas, though a little self-important, was probably his best bet to help him stake out an elf-friendly sleeping venue for the night. 

Solas was still awake when Val entered the rotunda, reading through the same tome Val had seen him examining hours earlier. The elf looked up sharply in surprise when he spotted Val across the room, and he could see Solas visibly deliberating whether to acknowledge him and have to be torn from his study. Eventually propriety won and Solas let out a long sigh.

“ _Ahnsul’al ma amahn’es, te’olathe’len_?” 

Alright, ouch. Wanting to know why he was showing up in the rotunda past midnight, he could understand, but Val was mildly offended at being called socially inept and fully prepared to snap something back, until he saw Solas’ wry smile. So the elf _was_ capable of humour after all. He relaxed and kept his mood in check.

“ _Shemlen_ don’t like the idea of an elf mage sleeping in one of their bunks, apparently. Not enough room in the Elvhen barracks either.”

“They have separate barracks for elves and humans?” Solas looked less tired and more angry now. Val shrugged. 

“It’s not likely that it’s going to be permanent - probably just for convenience, since there are more humans anyway and - eh, maybe it’s easier to keep everyone away from each other’s throats while tension’s so high here. I don’t really care, anyway-” 

“You _should_ care. The Inquisition is not the Imperium or some backwater city in Ferelden. It sets a bad example to be segregating based on race, especially in regards to elves, who have always been at the bottom of social hierarchies since humans set foot in Thedas -”

“Solas, I mean no offence but it’s nearing the witching hour and I’d just like a place to sleep tonight.”

Solas blinked owlishly at him, as if he startled himself with his small outburst more than he startled Val. Interesting as well, that he spoke as if he’d been _in_ Thedas since humans arrived. Odd way of putting it, anyway. Val took a more placating angle to better smooth out the conversation. 

“I agree with you, you know. I do. I’m just very tired. Could you point me in the direction of.. a warm corner, perhaps? Or a storage closet?”

“You may sleep on the couch if you wish, as long as it’s only for tonight. There is a blanket underneath.” He almost sounded… fond? No, Val had to be imagining it. He wasn’t about to wait for Solas to change his mind, however, and quickly shuffled over to the couch. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t have any issues sleeping in a room with another man literally ten feet away, but… he’d slept in worse places. He touched the couch and muttered a heating spell on it, carefully funnelling his mana so he didn’t accidentally set the material on fire. Once it was suitably warm, out of habit he began to place wards around the small perimeter of the couch. It wasn’t until he’d finished the third ward that he noticed Solas watching him intently. 

“Oh - sorry, I can remove these, force of habit-”

“No need, _arani_. I was simply curious of the way you channel your magic.”

Val frowned. 

“I’m not doing something wrong, am I?”

“On the contrary - your technique is perfectly acceptable. It is just… odd, to see such casual use of magic for everyday tasks and not in combat or healing. Many in Ferelden would frown on such a practise.”

“My.. my clan used magic for almost everything,” Val murmured, setting his staff down under the couch and toeing off his boots (he hated wearing them, but his feet were _cold_ , dammit), “our Keeper always said magic was meant as a tool, to use however we found most important in the moment. It wasn’t always about fighting - we had to hunt, repair the aravels, set up wards around our camp to keep out intruders. If magic is only used for fighting, you lose so much of its potential - and the skills you can gain from using small amounts instead of just flinging it at people.”

Solas seemed to consider this, head tilted in thought. 

“I imagine Tevinter held similar opinions on the use of magic in casual circumstances.”

“For magisters, sure,” Val snorted, pulling the blanket from the couch around his shoulders, “their problem, though, was that magic was like a crutch for them, not a tool. The magisters leaned on it far too heavily and it meant they couldn't hold a sword if their lives depended on it. Trust me, I know from experience.”

“Oh? You’ve duelled magisters in sword fights before, then?” Solas, the little shit, was teasing him again. 

“And get my blood instantly vaporised by some uppity _shem_ who thinks he knows more about magic than the elves who have lived in Tevinter longer than his family had a title? No, thank you. If you wanted to actually escape Tevinter, you had to spend most of your time keeping your head down and observing your enemies’ fighting styles. If you pick all of your battles instead of choosing them carefully, you’ll only live long enough to see yourself lose. I just watched and learned.” 

“An interesting philosophy, and one unfortunately necessary for many elves in the north. Is that why you bear the _vallaslin_ of Elgar’nan - to remind yourself of well-deserved vengeance from your days spent enslaved?” For a moment, Val saw something harden in Solas’ eyes as he uttered the name of the Dalish god, like he was reciting an old curse. Val wiggled his toes, suddenly very interested in the stone floor below him. 

“No, I received my vallaslin before I was taken to Tevinter. I chose Elgar’nan for a different reason.” When he didn’t elaborate, Solas quickly caught on and cleared his throat. 

“My apologies - I don’t mean to pry. If you wish for your past to remain private, I will not think less of you.”

“I appreciate that, Solas. I should get some sleep.” Solas nodded and turned back around in his chair. 

" _Nydha’re, da'len. Somnieremah son’an_.”

_Goodnight, and sleep well._

Val turned his back to Solas and closed his eyes, letting himself slip into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> \- Ubi sunt tibi a? = where are you from?  
> \- Ego ex Arlathan Silva, ad occidentem = I’m from Arlathan Forest, to the west [of Tevinter].  
> \- Ahnsul’al ma amahn’es, te’olathe’len? = what are you doing here, [person with no social skills; silly/silly one]? ie. what are you doing here, loser  
> \- Arani = [my] friend  
> \- Nydha’re, da'len. Somnieremah son’an = Goodnight, little one. Sleep well.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's dream time babey!
> 
> small note: the first few chapters of this are being uploaded in bulk since i've already written them. future chapters will be slower due to university work :)

Val had discovered early on in his life that his particular magical practise made his connection to the Fade… _different_ , from other mages. His dreams, if he managed to remember them at all, were more nightmares than anything else; a constant struggle of fending off curious demons from the spirit realm keen to body hop into his head. That night, he dreamed of walking through a forest, the humid and thick air around him making his hair cling to the nape of his neck. It was hot; certainly hotter than the frosty mountains of Skyhold. He turned to his right, scanning his surroundings, suddenly very aware of how alone he was. The forest was silent - not even birdsong or cicadas in the bushes penetrated the thick canopy of trees overhead. Val decided the best course of action was to start walking and continue until he recognised something - this was a dream, after all, and had to based on some memory he’d tucked away. 

It took him a little under an hour of walking when he found a familiar sign of life - an old Elvhen symbol carved into the trunk of a massive tropical pine. Reflexively he placed his palm against the bark, and the symbol spluttered to life, illuminating the faint blue of a path through the forest. An old hunting path used by the Dalish - it dawned on him that the heat, the familiar plant life and the Elvhen symbol must have meant he was in Arlathan Forest - his old home. Val closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the memories that flooded him - sitting in the grass as a young boy, separating fibres from palm fronds to make into thread; the first slaver he’d killed while defending two younger elves that had earned him his _vallaslin_ ; nights that were too hot to sleep in, instead spent gathered around one of the aravels telling stories of the gods. And less pleasant memories, too - his Keeper explaining that since he was not born into Clan Morlyn that he had no right to be considered as his First; the sharp tang of unfamiliar magic in the air as slavers closed in on him and his fellow hunters; the bite of chains at his wrists, ankles and neck that caused marks to swell up on his clammy skin as he was hauled onto a ship with scores of other terrified elves, headed for the heart of the Tevinter Imperium. 

By the time he’d worked through the barrage of emotions and successfully tampered them down long enough to focus, Val realised he’d walked for a good few hours (at least, by what he could tell from the sun’s position), and was now in a far more familiar section of the forest. The trees lessened in number and he found himself no longer pushing vines and low-hanging branches out of the way as he stepped into a large clearing. He was still alone, but signs that his old clan had lived here for some time were obvious - flattened and levelled earth with a thinner layer of grass than the rest of the surrounding area, where the aravels and tents would have been; old fire-pits and rotting logs of wood too small or too wet for a decent fire; and even a few cairns for those of the clan who had departed this world. But what caught Val’s attention was the glint of sun on marble, through the trees of the abandoned camp. He followed the light through another patch of thick forest, and about one hundred feet from him he saw it. 

Before him was a great marble statue of a wolf, its head tilted away from him and angled down. Its paws were easily the size of Val’s head, and its entire body was taller than some of the surrounding trees. A statue of Fen’Harel, constructed long before Clan Morlyn had occupied this part of Arlathan Forest. It was intricately and painstakingly carved, all smooth edges and incredible detailing on the wolf’s fur. When Val approached it, its eyes seemed to follow him, staring haughtily down at him like it was almost alive. 

He knew this statue for another reason, too; it was where his parents had died, fleeing bandits from the south. From what the Keeper had told him, they were probably escaped slaves from the Imperium or city elves from Antiva. Either way, neither his mother nor his father had been Dalish but knew of the Dalish clans within the forest and had tried to seek refuge with them. They got as far as the statue before Val’s mother, then pregnant with Val himself, had gone into labour. By the time they’d calmed their baby down enough and hid him out of sight between the statue’s paws, the bandits had caught up to them and slaughtered them. 

Val placed a hand in that same spot on the statue, staring down at the calloused and scarred skin of his fingers. He turned his hand over so it was palm-up, curling it into a loose fist. He wondered idly how different his life might have been if his parents had lived. He was certain they would have eventually been turned away by his old clan - they were a secretive and suspicious bunch who rarely, if ever, welcomed outsiders and this attitude extended to non-Dalish elves as well. Perhaps his parents would have spirited him off to Rivain or Antiva, where it was safer. He might have attended a Circle and learned normal, commonly-practised magic with other elves and humans. He would have grown up, maybe married, lived out the rest of his life in comfort and without scars lining his body from years of — 

A sound startled him out of his daydreaming, and Val spun immediately to face the source of it. In the trees near the statue of Fen’Harel stood a wolf - bigger than the regular wolves Val had seen, but still dwarfed by the marble effigy to its left. It had dark fur, almost black in the dappled forest light, and eyes that were bright and far too intelligent for a typical animal. There were no wolves in Arlathan Forest - the climate was too hot for their thick coats and most of the prey available was either poisonous or difficult for an animal to catch, even working in a pack. The gears turned in Val’s mind and he took a step backwards. 

“If you’re a demon, I’d rather just have you tell me now.”

The wolf cocked its head, seemingly understanding. It did not reply, but neither did it attack, and so Val relaxed his guard slightly. 

“Have you been following me this whole time?”

The wolf’s tail wagged once, and Val chose to interpret this as an affirmative. He crossed his arms. 

“This is my dream, so as much as you’re probably great company, you’re going to have to leave. I’d like to wake up.”

The animal blinked at him, and when it opened its eyes again, several other eyes opened across its face in tandem. 

Val sat up with a jerk, startled into the waking world. It took him a moment to realise where he was, but the dull ache in his back from sleeping awkwardly reminded him he was on Solas’ couch in Skyhold’s Great Hall. He pushed the blanket, now only covering his legs, off, and wiped a sheen of cool sweat from his brow. The dream was already starting to fade, but he remembered one thing clear as day - the wolf at the end, with its many, many eyes watching him. It seemed like it was waiting for him to notice it, to approach. Val shuddered at the thought - despite his clan’s unconventional beliefs in magic, he knew well enough to stay away from things that walked in dreams. Glad to be back in reality again, Val folded the blanket and placed it carefully under the couch before pulling on his boots and leaving the rotunda, in search of something to busy himself with before Skyhold fully awoke. 

—

Val ended up killing time with some impromptu training, using the bladed end of his staff to make quick work of the practise dummies outside the tavern. The air was cold, but not quite freezing and he soon warmed up with the exercise and the wintry sun beating down on his back. By the time most of Skyhold was up and about, he was finishing his self-imposed workout and was on his way to the baths. There was a brief hesitation at the entrance to the baths where he debated whether to enter the men’s or women’s room, but eventually his pride won out and he walked into the men’s bathhouse, stripping with practised efficiency and sinking into the cold water. 

Since Leliana hadn’t had one of her agents find him yet, once Val was dressed he made a beeline for the tavern in search of Lirene or perhaps one of the Chargers - breakfast with other people present made it easier to focus on conversation and harder to forget to actually eat. He didn’t spot Lirene - she’d probably made friends of her own in the barracks and had likely disappeared off to train with them. Val didn’t blame her; though he wasn’t the worst company, he was sure she appreciated being able to talk with other Marchers or Fereldans. He did, however, see the Chargers across the room, accompanied this time by their commander, The Iron Bull. 

Val had never seen the Qunari in person, only heard what were likely very embellished stories about him. Some of Val's previous mercenary partners had even claimed the Bull was ten feet tall, or that his skin couldn’t be pierced by any blade. Up close, he was certainly large, even by Qunari standards, but looked very mortal and certainly very normal, if a little rowdy this early in the morning. As if he’d sensed Val staring, he turned his head so his good eye could size the elf up, and beckoned him over after a word with Krem. 

“My lieutenant tells me you just joined yesterday. Welcome to the Inquisition,” Bull said, giving Val a heavy-handed pat on the back. 

“Thanks. I’m still waiting to get assigned somewhere, but it’s - an honour to meet you. The Chargers are pretty famous back in the Free Marches.” Val took a tentative seat at the end of the table, and briefly called one of the barmaids over to ask for a mug of coffee. The Iron Bull was tucking into some kind of bread and broth and a mug of strong-smelling ale, but he paused eating to lean over the table and examine Val properly. 

“An honour, huh? Don’t get that often. I s’pose mercs talk, don’t they?”

“They gossip like Orlesian nobles. No one gets as famous as you lot without some help from the little guys.” 

Bull laughed at that. 

“Yeah, it’s all in the name - most of the contracts we get are because some noble heard his friends talking about how we cleared out a giant out of their holiday chateau or whatever, and then he wants some bandit gang taken out, and it goes on. Everyone wants a piece of this.” He flexes his considerable muscles and most of the Chargers wolf whistled, Krem rolling his eyes and shaking his head in mock disappointment. 

“So how long have you been in the business, kid? You don’t even look thirty yet.” Bull was busy finishing breakfast, but Val could see the Qunari’s good eye watching him like a hawk. 

“I’m twenty-seven. Been working for five years now, but mostly out of Antiva and Rivain.”

“Not piracy, though.” At Val’s frown, he added, “Most mercs that get involved with pirates have some tattoos to show for it. You got nothing except your blood writing.” 

“I was hired on a few ships that were attacked by pirates, but I never actually… worked on a pirate ship on purpose, no.” 

“Shame. That'll put some hair on your chest, huh? Some of the boys in Seheron ran into a lot of Rivaini pirates during the trip back home.” 

Val blinked. 

“You were in Seheron?”

“Yup. Spent almost ten years on that shithole of an island, but that’s practically ancient history now. ’Sides, mercenary work pays a whole lot better.” 

Val considered this, working through what little he knew about Qunari and their conflict with Tevinter. During his time as a slave, he hadn’t had much interaction with the outside world; Magister Callistus was a secretive and suspicious man and rarely allowed even his few apprentices to enter his home less than a week in advance. Val instead heard rumours from passing merchants and some of the more mobile slaves that Tevinter was warring with the Qunari over the occupation of Seheron, but that Tevinter was rapidly losing both troops and ground on the island. However, from what he could recall, Seheron’s defences mostly consisted of Qunari _beresaad_ \- mostly young soldiers guarding Seheron’s port. Nothing like the older, more experienced Iron Bull and whatever fighting forces he’d been working with. Val struggled to come up with a response. 

“Well… sorry you were stuck there for so long. I’ve never been to Seheron but I’ve heard stories.”

“I’m not surprised. 'Vints love their propaganda.” 

Val made a noise halfway between outrage and a snort of laughter. 

“Not technically a ‘Vint, first of all, and _secondly_ , you’re one to talk! The Qun is ninety-percent propaganda.”

“Sure, but at least we’re honest about it. None of that dancing around the point bullshit. We know what we’re doing and we don’t try and spin it any other way.” 

So, not Tal-Vashoth, at least. No ex-follower of the Qun would talk about it so casually and so openly. But not a soldier, either - he’d done that time already. So what…?

“I’m Ben-Hassrath, before you pop something trying to figure it out.” Bull wiggled his fingers ominously. “We handle all the shit that goes back and forth between you guys. And before you ask, yeah, Red knows. Figured being as transparent as possible would be my best bet.”

“Isn’t that kind of bad form, for a spy?” The Iron Bull was nothing like Leliana’s agents - no form-obscuring clothes, no whispered messages in back rooms, no shady letters passed between gloved hands. He was just… some guy. Bull winked at him - or rather, twitched his good eye in what Val assumed was a wink. 

“Either the worst spy or the best, I think Varric said once. I like to think I’m doing a pretty good job. They never suspect the friendly ones.” At that, he fixed Val with a deliberate stare - not quite holding it long enough for the others to catch it, but certainly long enough for Val to notice. Reflexively, he pulled the sleeves of his tunic further down his arms and stood from his seat. 

“I should go speak to Spymaster Leliana. She’s probably followed up on all of my information by now.” 

“And I gotta piss,” Bull said after an appropriate pause, standing and stretching. Val scooped up his staff and hurried out of the Herald’s Rest before Bull was even halfway across the tavern. 

Val didn’t even make it to the steps leading up to the Great Hall before Bull caught up to him. Maker’s balls, the Qunari was fucking _fast_. Val was glad he at least had the self-control not to jump out of his skin when the mercenary practically cornered him, just off to the side of the stairs. 

“I’m gonna be honest with you, kid - you’re a great actor but you’re no spy. If you wanna keep your secrets secret, you’re gonna need to work harder.”

Val tried his best to keep his expression neutral. 

“I’m not sure what you mean.” 

Bull snorted.

“Oh, c’mon. You can drop the act, I know you’re a blood mage.” 

_That_ made Val’s stomach curdle. He glanced over Bull’s shoulder, scanning for any passers-by who might be listening in, but it was morning and everyone was occupied with their various duties around Skyhold, too busy to notice the two of them in the shadowed alcove. He decided to play the defensive.

“I’m not a blood mage. Just because I use magic -“

“Nah, I saw those scars on your arms. Mostly on your right, and you’re clearly left-handed. So, process of elimination - you either did it yourself to deal with some shit, or you did it yourself to get a little boost of power. Maybe both. Krem said you were a slave in Tevinter, so my money’s on you having a magister master who was a little too invested in getting that extra edge. Maybe you picked it up from him, maybe you learned it so you’d survive. Let me know how I’m going so far.”

Val opened and closed his mouth, shocked into silence. He debated, for a moment, just making a run for it, but what would that accomplish? It would only solidify his guilt, and he didn’t need more people asking questions. 

“Alright, yes, I’m - you’re right,” he blurted, silently cursing himself for buckling under the pressure, “but I’m not evil - I’m not a bad person.”

“No one thinks they’re a bad person - we’re all the heroes of our own stories, aren’t we? What I’m interested in is why you picked the Inquisition. You working for someone?”

“No! No, I’m not - working for anyone!” Val hissed it through gritted teeth, growing increasingly anxious. “I was trying to fucking _survive_. I don’t even kill people.”

“I’m calling bullshit on that.” Bull was leaning in dangerously close; close enough that Val was completely in his shadow. “I think you killed a few. More than a few. I think you got a kick out of it, too. Something satisfying about using a person’s body against them, yeah? Taking away their power, making it your own. That’s attractive to anyone in a bad way.”

“I’m not a bad person,” Val said again, pleading. 

“Bad is a pretty subjective thing, kid. I don’t give a shit about your moral compass, but if you’re planning something—” 

“ _Listen_ ,” Val craned his neck so he could look the Qunari in the eye, jaw set, “The only reason I’m here is because I need money, and my fucking friend convinced me that the Inquisition was the best place to make some. Yes, I’ve killed people, because I was a slave and was being _hunted_! Back anyone into a corner and give them a way out and they’d do the exact same thing. The people I killed deserved it - they were slavers and bandits and wouldn’t bat an eye at doing the same to me. If I had any say, I would be back in Antiva where I don’t have to look up and see a fucking _hole in the sky_ or worry whether a Templar or an over-eager Fereldan is going to gut me if I look at them wrong.”

Val paused to take a breath, feeling his face flush with anger. Bull waited for him to continue. 

“My clan practised blood magic, and they taught it to me, and I learned the rest from my master before I slit his throat and freed half his estate. If using weird and fucked-up magic gets me results, then I don’t care how many people don’t like it - it keeps me safe and it keeps me powerful, and that’s the best an elf like me can ask for. So if you have a problem - by all means, report me to Leliana or the Inquisitor or whoever is in charge of handling blood mages around here, but I’m just trying to _live_.”

Bull was quiet for a beat, and Val almost bolted again - but by sheer force of will he kept himself still, held his ground. He wasn’t going to be scared off by some shitty intimidation. 

“Alright.”

“…Beg your pardon?”

“I believe you. I don’t agree with you, but I don’t think you’re gonna cause problems.”

“Are you going to tell anyone?”

“Nope.”

Val raised an eyebrow. 

“Just like that? I don’t need to bribe you or something? It doesn’t offend your Qun sensibilities?”

Bull barked a laugh. 

“Oh, it offends plenty of my sensibilities, kid. I just don’t think you’re as big a threat as whatever we’re gonna be fighting in the next few months. You keep yourself in check, I’ll keep this conversation between us. Sound good?”

“What’s the catch?”

“Maybe don’t go running around cutting your wrists in public or assassinating any nobles, and I think we’re good.”

Val felt his shoulders slowly un-bunch themselves, his pulse evening out into something relatively normal. He leaned heavily against the stone wall behind him. 

“Thank you. It… means a lot, that you’re doing this.”

“Sure thing, kid. Try not to get yourself executed, yeah? Makes the rest of us mercs look kind of bad.” And with that, Bull gave him another conspiratorial wink and strode back to the tavern, leaving Val struggling to return his breathing to something not overly-suspicious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah, that's sort of the biggest reveal in this story so far. i liked the idea of Val learning blood magic to survive, and then turning it on his former master. seems dope as hell. 
> 
> and don't worry - questions currently unanswered will be answered further into the story.


	4. Chapter 4

_Three months later - Solis/Solace, 9:41 Dragon_

Val settled into a comfortable routine, once Leliana had given him the all-clear to begin his work with the Inquisition. He was assigned a bed in the barracks, finally, though it was dark and near the back of the building and not many of the other non-mage humans spoke with him. Every morning, he would wake at dawn, like clockwork, and head out to the nearby training grounds to practise his combat skills before the majority of Skyhold got out of bed. He’d head down to the mess hall or the tavern to say hello to Lirene afterwards, or the Chargers before they headed out into the field. After that he’d walk over to the Great Hall and spend most of the day in the library or up in Leliana’s nook assisting with translations or providing useful information on Tevinter fighting styles, which Leliana was requiring more and more of as the Venatori presence in the South of Thedas grew. 

He didn’t get much time to use his magic - it just wasn’t required in the first few months, and he rarely, if ever, left Skyhold. The few times he did, he went out on his own and put some distance between himself and the fortress so he could train with his blood magic in relative peace. If an unfortunate nug or passing bear happened to get prematurely murdered during that process, he would deny it until his dying day. 

What little free time Val managed to squeeze out of his first three months was mostly spent hanging around Solas, if the elf was actually in Skyhold; he was a popular choice for the Inquisitor to drag along on missions, because of his extensive knowledge of the Fade and experience with magic, so more often than not Val was left standing awkwardly in an empty rotunda, surrounded by Solas’ murals. The few moments they both were in the Great Hall at the same time, they spent discussing elves, the Dalish, and magic. Solas guarded his own secrets jealously and rarely let anything slip about his past, prompting Val to try and see what he could wheedle out of the other elf before Solas eventually noticed and became irritated. So far, he’d learned that Solas was an apostate from somewhere in the South, that he frequently traversed the Fade in search of forgotten knowledge, and that he had an.. unconventional relationship with the spirits he found there. Val wasn’t exactly one to talk - ‘unconventional' was kind of his speciality - so he held his tongue and asked as many questions as he felt comfortable with about the spirits Solas found in his dreams. 

Val’s dreams, on the other hand, became stranger; though he often forgot them as soon as he woke, he was certain he spotted the many-eyed wolf cropping up in whatever memory he was reliving. In dreams of his early life with Clan Morlyn, the creature was stalking through the woods just out of arm’s reach; in nightmares of Tevinter, it was almost completely hidden in the shadows of buildings or out of the corner of Val’s eye. It occurred to him one morning that the wolf may not have been following him, per se; it was _learning_ , watching his life play out in front of it and deciding whether Val was interesting enough to observe for longer. Though disconcerting at first, Val realised he couldn’t exactly stop it hanging around, and the wolf became a regular fixture once he went to sleep. It was almost comforting, knowing that at least one thing in his dreams stayed consistent. 

—

It was during the month of Solace that Val was assigned his first actual fight - in the Western Approach, located in western Orlais. The place was one massive desert, rampant with Venatori mages, creatures that could tear a man’s head off if he wasn’t careful, and noxious gases that prevented the bulk of Inquisition forces from moving on Adamant Fortress, one of their enemy’s main bases. Val and a team of other warriors, rogues, and mages, were working on clearing out the clusters of Venatori ahead of the Inquisitor so base camps could be set up in the Approach. In theory, an easy task, but Val knew most of the people with him were Fereldan or Orlesian and had no experience with Tevinter magic. This would be harder for them, and he had no doubt they’d lose at least one person before their mission was complete. 

Val didn’t take long to pack - what few possessions he’d accumulated over the years could easily fit in a standard knapsack, and that gave him time to have his armour touched up and his staff given a very expensive but very deadly fire rune that Dagna, the Inquisition’s arcanist, insisted would do some serious damage in combat. He tested it out on a bear that attacked his camp when they stopped for the first time out of Skyhold, and the poor creature was barely standing after just a single blast of magic. Val walked away from the fight very pleased and very aware that he’d just made himself one of the strongest members of his team. 

There was one other mage with him - a human spirit healer named Cyril, hailing from Orlais. He obviously grew up sheltered and wouldn’t stop going on about how different the Inquisition was from his Circle, and it irritated Val at first, but the man meant well and over the course of the journey, Val grew to tolerate him, more than appreciating the barriers Cyril put up in combat for the party since Val couldn’t conjure spirit magic even if he’d wanted to. Two of the more interesting warriors were Ferelden-born - a dwarf named Isa and a human named Sabine, who were clearly sleeping together and didn’t skimp on their public displays of affection while travelling. The other notable member of the party was a rogue, an elf named Torres, whose Trade Tongue was so flawless Val didn’t even realise they were a native Antivan until they mentioned it offhandedly at the campfire one night. There were a few others - three more warriors and two rogues that kept the mages of the group well-defended during a fight. It wasn’t the largest party by any stretch, but Val was feeling more confident that most of them would be able to hold their own by the time they reached the Western Approach. 

Despite the decent party, however, their terrain worked against them almost as soon as they arrived at their destination. Val was emptying sand out of his boots before they even reached the Inquisition’s main encampment, and the Fereldans in the party were struggling with the heat in their heavy plate armour and thick cloaks better suited for the chilly rains of their native country. Val, conversely, found himself ready and full of energy the following day at camp as they staked out a location marked on the map supposedly crawling with Venatori. 

“How the fuck do you stand this heat, elf?” Isa grumbled as she fiddled with a strap on her chest plate. Val shrugged. 

“Tevinter-born. You get used to the heat or you die, I suppose.”

“Tevinter? You don’t have a problem fighting these cult guys?”

“Nope,” Val replied, popping the ‘p’. “'These cult guys’ have slaves - _Elvhen_ slaves - that are suffering back in Tevinter. The world will be a better place without those ‘Vint shits abusing their power.” 

“Hear, hear,” Torres muttered, scanning the horizon and squinting in the harsh sunlight. They held up a hand to block the sun’s rays for a moment, pointing eastward. 

“See those mountains? That's where we need to go. The Venatori are hiding in one of those caves on the face of the largest mountain - there aren't many, so our search will hopefully be quick, Maker willing.” 

“It will be a rough journey,” Cyril added, looking disdainfully at the sharp slope of the mountain. “I would suggest removing some heavier armour, since I can provide ample barriers during combat.”

The warriors glanced amongst themselves and seemed to agree, peeling off some of their plate armour and replacing it with the lighter leather and silks the Inquisition camp had provided. Once everyone had changed clothes and gotten comfortable, they set out over the dunes and towards the mountains, Val leading the way through the unfamiliar terrain with Torres at his side consulting their map. 

They didn’t meet much resistance on the way, which Val was grateful for - extra fighting meant less stamina and less mana for the real threat ahead, and he needed his party at their best. They made it to the base of the small mountain range by early afternoon, the sun’s rays beating down on their backs, and stopped briefly for food and a moment’s rest. Val took a seat next to Cyril, and immediately regretted it. 

“I saw you use both fire and ice while we travelled - do you not specialise in a particular magic?” He asked, uncorking his waterskin and drinking heavily. Val shifted his feet and busied himself with kicking a small rock down the side of a nearby ravine. 

“I was never very good at spirit magic, and storm magic feels too random and uncontrollable for me. Fire and ice have both served me well in the past and I don’t see any reason to change them now.”

“But surely you Dalish work best with spirit magic! I spoke to one Dalish elf who—” 

“They’re not a hive mind, Cyril,” Torres interrupted irritably, in the process of sharpening one of their daggers. “Most elves don’t even have magic, just like everyone else. Of course, you wouldn’t know that since all of your elves are packed away in those alienages—” 

“Do not pretend that Antiva treats other races any differently,” Cyril retorted, crossing his arms in defence. “At least Empress Celene is attempting to make peace with those she rules - Antiva would rather lump the elves in with the cutthroats and thieves of the Crows than acknowledge them as hard-working citizens.”

“'Attempting to make peace?' Didn’t she fuckin’ give the order for the bullshit at Halamshiral? We all know how many elves died in that massacre.” Isa had joined the argument from her spot beside Sabine, apparently tired of Cyril as well. Val blinked. He.. actually hadn’t known that - the closest he’d been to Orlais before joining the Inquisition was the Free Marches. He leaned over to Sabine and murmured, “Is she serious?”, to which Sabine nodded gravely, keeping her hand on Isa’s forearm. 

“A decision forced by Duke Gaspard’s meddling! You did not see the play he put on, how he mocked our Empress.”

“You’re telling me that some guy makes fun of Celene in a fucking _theatre piece_ , and she kills off most of Halamshiral’s alienage because of it? How can you say that with a straight face, asshat? You just don’t care because they’re elves.” Isa had leapt to her feet and was staring Cyril down - who, to his credit, was starting to look nervous. 

“It was not just a _theatre piece_ \- it was political propaganda, intended to undermine Celene’s authority—”

“Can all of you please shut the fuck up so we can kill some people?” Val interrupted loudly, startling the group. Eighteen pairs of eyes all turned to face him in surprise. 

“We have a job, so let’s get it done and get out of here. You can scream at each other back at Skyhold.”

Isa, Torres and Cyril were still glaring daggers at each other, but they seemed placated for now, and Val wasn’t going to waste any more time giving them another window to start bickering again. He scooped up his staff and started the trek up the roughly-hewn mountain path, towards the caves. If his party fought as well as they argued, they’d be clear of the Venatori in no time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the curious, here is a summary of Val's party:   
> \- Cyril - male AMAB mage, spirit healer, orlais // human  
> \- Isa - female AMAB warrior, champion, ferelden // dwarf  
> \- Sabine - female AFAB warrior, reaver, ferelden // human  
> \- Torres - nonbinary AMAB rogue, artificer, antiva // elf
> 
> The three additional warriors (brackets are their specialisations)  
> \- Jean-Luc, male AMAB, orlais, human (champion)  
> \- Henry, male AMAB, ferelden, human (templar)   
> \- Bea - female AFAB, rivain, elf (champion)  
> The two extra rogues:   
> \- Ada, female AFAB, free marches, dwarf (assassin)  
> \- Edric, male AMAB, free marches, dwarf (tempest)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOO we're getting interesting. CW/ descriptions of heavy gore, violence, some DA-centric racial slurs used, and a lot of blood.

In hindsight, Val thought, he probably should have prepared the party more thoroughly for Tevinter-style magic. They reached the caves without a hitch, but were immediately met with resistance in the first cavern - a pack of six Venatori, decked out in expensive armour. Val spotted two mages among them and shouted a warning, but he was too late - the warriors had forged ahead first and took the brunt of the magical damage almost instantly, knocking all of them back several feet. Cyril was quick to throw up protective barriers, but his magic didn’t have a huge area of effect and the rogues weren’t covered, one of them going down within the first minute of combat to a Venatori wielding a massive warhammer. 

Val knew his spot in the party should have been near the back, providing ranged protection for those in close combat, but he couldn’t resist getting in a little closer and stabbing one of the Venatori in her upper thigh the moment she strayed too close to Cyril. His aim was true and the blade of his staff caught her in her artery, spraying blood across both their armour, and she went down to one knee with a cry of pain. Val used the blunt edge of his staff to clock her across the face, stunning her temporarily, then rained a torrent of deadly ice spikes down upon her. She collapsed with a bloody gurgle after that, shafts of ice embedding themselves in her throat and chest. Val kicked her body to the side and surveyed the scene.

Both Venatori mages had been picked off by Torres and another rogue’s expertly-laid traps and surprise attacks from behind, so the biggest contender was the man with the warhammer and the other two warriors still standing. Val set his sights on the former, blasting him with Winter’s Grasp to hold him effectively in place while Isa and Sabine hacked away at him with their swords. The man was taking heavy damage, but managed to withstand the blows and broke free of the ice magic, answering with an attack of his own and cleaving a path through one of the other warriors in Val’s party, leaving the man dead on the ground. Val summoned a wall of fire, blocking the man's path to Sabine and Isa, and focused on the other two Venatori. He cast Immolate and set them both on fire, keeping them distracted while his party’s rogues finished them off. Isa and Sabine were able to make quick work of the warhammer warrior after that, taking him down with two expertly-timed stabs at the chinks in his armour. 

With the first wave of Venatori dead, Val picked through the bodies for anything interesting, ignoring the slightly horrified glances of Cyril. He found a few pouches of coin, which he pocketed, and a nice focusing crystal on one of the mages that he handed over to Cyril. Sabine found a couple of healing potions, too, which she gave to the wounded members of the party. They left their dead warrior, agreeing to come back later and collect his body for the journey back to camp. The mood was far more somber than when they’d started - with one dead, they were one member short and therefore one member more vulnerable. With no idea exactly how large the Venatori forces ahead would be, numbers would be their advantage and Val was nervous about their odds. 

With mana and stamina low, the party stopped a moment to catch their breath and search the area for anything useful to the Inquisition - apparently the Inquisitor had placed a requisition for Venatori Tomes, books that would help him hone whatever specialised magic he was working on. They didn’t find any, but they did find a hastily-written note on the location of the bulk of Venatori forces - in a small clearing at the edge of an abandoned mine on the other side of the mountain. It appeared that the cave complex was their only way in, so surprise attacks were mostly off the table, but Val crouched down with the group and attempted to hash out a strategy anyway. 

“You’ve seen how they cast now, alright? Our most important goal is to take out the mages first, because they post the most ranged threat. Any of the ‘Vints who do close combat will be trying to hit Cyril and I as well,” Val said, drawing a rough map of the upcoming battle in the sand at his feet. 

“If Sabine can clear a path, I can take Ada and Edric and flank the mages. Hit the rest from behind with some mines as well.” Torres marked out their location and drew a line around the outside of the Venatori, tapping the x’s representing enemy mages. Val nodded, pleased. 

“Solid plan. We can get the rest of the warriors to fan out, keep a good guard between us and them but leave room to engage them individually, not three-to-one or something that’ll get you killed. Henry, you and Cyril need to work together to keep the mages’ magic diffused. Let’s make them use up their mana so they’re basically useless.” 

“What if they outnumber us?” Isa asked, rubbing the back of her neck anxiously. “We need to assume they got more of ‘em than we do, and we’re already a man down.”

“Stick to the plan,” Val said. “Sabine clears a path, two of the rogues circle ‘round the outside and Torres goes through the middle to hit the mages. Cyril and I will keep you protected as best we can. If there’s a shit-ton of them, try and get them to bunch up and I can blast them with a wall of ice or fire to slow them down. We pick off the stragglers on the edges and then all hit the main group together.”

They spent a few more minutes discussing specifics, but everyone seemed satisfied with the plan and together they set out through the cave system, walking two abreast and keeping close watch on the path ahead in case of an ambush. Val intended to step out of the caves swinging, giving the Venatori little time to form up. With luck, they wouldn’t be so numerous that they’d be a problem. 

The trip through the caves was quiet, the party thrumming with nervous energy. Everyone held their weapons in death grips, jaws set and eyes fixed on the approaching light that marked the exit to the cave. They all pressed themselves against the walls and Torres vanished from their line of sight as they snuck out to scout the territory ahead. They returned after a minute, looking grave. 

“I counted fifteen. At least five mages with them. They’re rogue-heavy too, so they’ll be hard to pin down.”

Isa spat a curse under her breath and gnashed her teeth; the rest of the party glanced amongst themselves with expressions ranging from anxious to downright terrified. Val shook his head and pulled everyone into a rough huddle. 

“Listen - we have a job to do, and that job is to kill Venatori so the Inquisitor can get through this section of the Approach. We’re gonna show them the meaning of fear, you hear me? None of those ‘Vints are walking away from this alive.”

Everyone nodded, double-checking their armour and weapons and downing stamina droughts. They took a collective breath, exhaled, and stepped out of the cave. 

The Venatori, at least, were not prepared for them; with no survivors from the group in the cave they were caught totally unawares and had to quickly group up, which gave Val’s party plenty of time to hit them fast and hit them hard. Val’s group of warriors fanned out as planned, meeting the bulk of the Venatori head-on in a clash of blades, armour and blood. Val and Cyril manoeuvred themselves behind their warriors, keeping their distance to avoid the arrows rained upon their party by two of the Venatori’s rogues. Barriers were thrown up on both sides, Sabine and Isa keeping close together to try and punch a hole through the enemy’s defences. Out of the corner of Val’s eye, he saw the shadow of Torres and the two other rogues dart past, tossing mines and traps at the feet of the Venatori. Then the barriers dissolved, and all hell broke loose. 

Two Venatori went down almost immediately, leaving thirteen left. Val threw combinations of explosive fire and deadly ice spikes while Cyril used most of his mana to dismantle the enemy mages’ casting, not wasting all of his energy on barriers. There was a scream to Val’s left and he watched as one of his party’s rogues, a male dwarf, fell backwards into the sand, his chest peppered with arrows and a gaping hole in his abdomen streaming blood. They were down to seven now, and that hole looked suspiciously like blood magic. Val sidestepped an arrow that narrowly missed his ear and peered through the carnage at the mages, all five of which were still standing. Most of them were sticking to storm or spirit magic, but there was one in the centre - a man, with black hair pulled back into a tight ponytail and sleeves rolled up to expose pockmarked arms that were leaking rivulets of blood into the sand. Something about him looked familiar - and Val realised, horror coiling in his gut, that he knew the human. He was one of his old master’s apprentices, Alberic. 

Val’s immediate thought, before anything else, was _run away_. His body nearly did just that, one foot pivoting away from the battle, but he dug his heels in and gritted his teeth, feeling the air around him grow acrid with the smell of magic. He summoned a fireball and threw it directly at Alberic, the rune on his staff lighting up bright orange and the wood and metal around sizzling. The Venatori mage threw up a barrier just in time, taking a little bit of damage but otherwise emerging unscathed. His gaze fixed on Val, and recognition dawned on his face. 

“Well, well!” He cried across the field, twirling his staff and slicing an attached blade across his arm. A stream of blood poured from the wound, turning ugly and black as he warped it and absorbed it into his mana pool. “So the little knife-eared runaway comes back from the dead! I would have thought you’d be lying face-down in a pile of blood and shit by now.”

Val bared his teeth, throwing another fireball, which Alberic dodged. “See if you’re still smiling when I pull your tongue out of your throat, _shem_!”

Alberic laughed and twisted his fingers, making one of Val’s warriors convulse and fall to the ground in pain. 

“I doubt a _rattus_ like you could lay a hand on me and expect to do damage. A shame Callistus kept you for so long - I would have had that pretty face scalped and put on my wall as a trophy. Those ugly blood markings of yours do mar the picture, though.”

Val snarled and charged forward, spotting a gap in the fighting where Sabine had cleared the bulk of Venatori forces. He couldn’t cast barriers, sure, but he could dodge. Skipping from one rocky outcropping to the next, he weaved his way between fighters and slid under the swinging blade of one Venatori’s war axe, the edge of the weapon only just clipping the ends of his hair. A sharp pain in his right shoulder briefly pushed him back, and he reached to the side and snapped off the arrow that had lodged itself there. With a grunt of pain, he tossed the shaft to the ground and kept running. Alberic was starting to look less haughty and more focused; Val was going to make him choke on his own fucking magestaff. 

He reached the Venatori mage before his friends could hit him with spells of their own; and Val was pleased to find he had a solid barrier around his body thanks to Cyril. With one fluid movement he spun his staff and slammed it into the ground, sending shockwaves towards the cluster of Venatori and pushing a few back with the force of his mana. Ice exploded from the sand and impaled one of the mages to Alberic’s right, knocking him into the ground, and Alberic himself growled a challenge and cut open his other arm, his form shifting and crackling with energy. He extended his hand like a claw in Val’s direction, and the barrier became useless as pain shot up Val’s legs, forcing his knees to buckle. He ate dirt as he hit the sand face-first, pushing himself up on an elbow and firing a bolt of flame in Alberic’s general direction. He missed, again; the mage simply stepped to one side this time, not even bothering to dodge. 

Val knew rage was getting the better of him - part of him was screaming to fall back to Cyril, use the warriors as a wall between him and the enemy mages. But revenge won over and he struggled to pull himself to his feet. A boot landed squarely on his back, knocking the breath from his lungs, and he felt Alberic’s full weight pressing down on him. 

“A pity, that it ends like this,” the Venatori drawled, raising his staff, the wicked edge of the blade angled down towards Val’s spine. “I would have preferred you dragged back to Tevinter in chains. They suited you so well, after all.”

The blade of his staff came down. Val jerked his body to one side, and the weapon caught him between two of his lower ribs instead; he screamed as Alberic yanked the blade out and aimed for another blow, this time to kill him. Blood - _his blood_ \- flowed like water into the sand, staining it red - it wasn’t a fatal wound but the pain was making it hard for Val to concentrate and focus his steadily depleting pool of mana. In the seconds, the _milliseconds_ , he had before Alberic killed him, he made a decision. 

Val closed his eyes and willed the blood seeping from his wounds back into his body, like his clan First had taught him; _channel the blood, make yourself the master of it. Bend it to your will and push it into the space your mana would be_. He felt himself grow stronger, limbs previously rendered useless by Alberic’s own blood magic springing into action. His hands dug into the sand as power seeped into them, and curled into fists; he immediately directed all of his power, everything in his being, at holding Alberic in place. As he felt life drain out of him, he also felt the mage above freeze up, a choked sound coming from his throat. Val grinned, all bloody teeth, and shoved Alberic off him, flipping them over so Val was straddling the human’s chest. Alberic attempted to cast a spell, but Val, with a burst of his own magic, snapped his staff in half, leaving the weapon lying useless by the Venatori’s side. 

“Callistus forgot,” Val gritted out, spraying Alberic’s face with blood, “that we knife-ears have little tricks of our own. Say hello to him for me.”

He curled his hand into a claw and _pulled_ ; Alberic’s face went white as a sheet and he gurgled and choked as the blood in his body lifted right out of him, through the pores of his skin, forming a thin mist. Val continued to drag the blood from the mage, watching in fascination as Alberic’s eyes bugged out of their sockets, and then popped completely, spraying his face with viscera. His eyes, nose and mouth shot out blood with enough pressure to make Val lean back to avoid the worst of the gore. He kept his hold on his magic, using more energy than he thought he even had, tugging and pulling and _wrenching_ every ounce of life from Alberic’s body. The mage’s skin withered and shrunk, mummifying itself as a puddle of blood formed around it. His armour shifted and fell into his caved-in chest; his exposed arms peeled away to reveal chunks of muscle and bone. Val remained in place, even feeling his own body begin to heal itself as it stole the life force from the Tevinter magister. Skin sloughed away to muscle; muscle, to bone, and finally all that was left of Alberic was a sticky, blood-soaked skeleton in armour, jaw hanging askew in one final expression of horror. 

The strain of using so much energy in such little time was beginning to take its toll; Val slumped back onto his thighs, panting heavily as the adrenaline started to fade away and was replaced by aching pain from his ribs and the arrow to his shoulder. Standing took every ounce of his strength, and he knew he’d have barely enough mana to even throw a basic fireball.

He didn’t have to - Sabine and Isa had taken down many of the Venatori forces, the other warriors finishing off the rest of the stragglers. Two bodies bearing Inquisition armour lay motionless in the sand; not bad losses for such an outnumbered fight. Torres was in the process of taking down the remaining enemy mages, but Cyril hadn’t put a barrier up for them - he was staring right at Val, mouth open.

Val realised with a dawning sense of dread that the other mage had not only seen what he’d done to Alberic, but he knew full well what kind of magic it was, too. He scooped up his staff and weaved his way through the pile of bodies towards Cyril, but the man took a large step back and shook his head, ruining any chance of Val making his case. He cursed and spat at the ground, holding his side; this was his fuckup, and he’d have to lie in the bed he’d made for himself. He began to think of good excuses for why he’d just sucked the skin off a Venatori, when Sabine and Isa hurried over, looking furious.

“What the hell were you thinking, charging in like that? You could have gotten yourself killed and we’d have been a mage down!” Sabine didn’t anger as easily as her partner, but her expression was murderous, made even more so by the splatter of gore across her face and neck. Val cringed. 

“I’m sorry - I knew him, from Tevinter. I was a slave, and his master was—”

“I don’t give a fuck if you were a slave! You abandoned the plan, the plan that you fucking came up with! Damn miracle you’ve survived this long as a mercenary with how shit you are at controlling yourself.”

Val’s hackles raised at that and he jabbed a finger at Sabine. 

“I didn’t see any of you offering a better plan! And shit changes in the middle of a fight, people get turned around and plans fall through. That’s what being a mercenary fucking _is_ \- you _adapt_!”

“‘Shit changes’ is your only excuse? ‘Cause some ‘Vint got under your skin? We lost people because of you, Valerian! It’s your fault they’re dead—” 

Isa put a hand on Sabine’s shoulder and whispered something to her, which seemed to calm her down a little. Val, on the other hand, was fuming. 

“My fault? _My fucking fault_? I came up with this plan, I told you shits how to fight these guys so you wouldn’t go down in the first thirty seconds, and _this_ is how you thank me? For saving your asses from certain death? You wouldn’t have made a _damn dent_ in their lines if I hadn’t told you to punch that hole through!”

“Shut up, Valerian. Sabine, you too. We’re not helping anyone by arguing,” Isa snapped, holding up a hand before Sabine could protest. 

“Val, I frankly don’t give a fuck about your sob story. The fact is, you ditched us to get some stupid revenge, and it might’ve cost us two good fighters. You can bet your ass I won’t be working with you again.”

“Then don’t,” Val spat. “I don’t want to work in this dysfunctional mess anyway.”

“Let’s search the bodies and get everyone back to camp safely,” Torres cut in, placating. “We can shout about who fucked up and what went wrong when we’re out of enemy territory.”

Everyone, after no small amount of glaring, eventually agreed on this, and they looted the Venatori corpses for gold and supplies before hauling the bodies of their fallen comrades back into the caves. Val found himself at the back of the party, and Cyril wasted no time saddling up to him. 

“I saw what you did,” the Orlesian hissed under his breath, voice shaking. “I saw you use blood magic. You are a _maleficar_.”

Val turned to him, still buzzing from the heat of battle. He must have looked a little unhinged, because Cyril shied away, one hand curling around his staff. 

“If you want to stay alive,” he hissed back, “you’ll keep your fucking mouth shut, Cyril.” 

But the mage didn’t look ready to budge; trust him to grow a spine once they’re not even in combat. They were further back from the rest of the party now - the bulk of the group was already in the cave entrance picking up the last body from their team. 

“I don’t think I will. This needs to be reported to Commander Rutherford and the Spymaster immediately. You will stand trial, and be expelled from the Inquisition if you are lucky—” 

Cyril’s rant was cut off by a strangled sound of pain - and Val’s staff blade embedded in his chest, down to the hilt. He didn’t get a chance to shout for help; Val covered his mouth and nose and shoved him against the wall, cracking the back of Cyril’s skull against the stone. The mage’s eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped over, the life leaving his body. 

Val stepped back, breathing coming rapidly - he’d just _murdered_ one of his team in cold blood. He had seconds, if not less, before the rest of the party noticed his and Cyril’s absence and came looking for them. He was such a fucking idiot. Val slammed a fist into the cave wall and clenched his jaw, searching for something, _anything_ he could use as a reason for Cyril’s abrupt death. He’d been so focused on keeping his secret that he’d reacted impulsively, like a fool, and made the situation even worse. He didn’t have the energy to drag Cyril’s body away - it had to be something magical. Kneeling down by the corpse, Val drew on the dregs of his power and pressed a hand to Cyril’s wound. The blood inside the mage’s body curdled and turned back, hissing and spluttering. Val pushed a little harder, and Cyril’s eyes began to bleed, the liquid dark and viscous. He stood up, giving himself vertigo in the process, and leaned heavily against the far wall, calling out for his party. 

Torres arrived first, stopping a few feet short of Val and Cyril. They blinked.

“Andraste’s _tits_ , Valerian! What the hell happened?”

“Blood magic,” Val murmured, sliding down the wall and sitting hard on the ground. “I’ve seen it before in Tevinter - it’s a blood curse, takes a while to fully.. manifest. Corrupts the blood inside. They must have hit him in the fight and it didn’t take effect until now.”

Not a complete lie - some magic could be detonated after a battle or with a specific combination of spells. Val just needed to keep it believable and hope that no one in the party had ever witnessed blood magic before. 

Sabine, Isa and the rest of the group followed after Torres, and Isa crouched by Cyril’s body to examine the wound, making a face at the oozing black blood. 

“Cyril was so far from the fighting. Can a mage even do that?”

“I’m not sure - I’ve never seen something like this take so long,” Val lied, pressing the heels of his palms against his temples. A hard stone of guilt settled in his gut, but if he showed his hand now, he had no doubt the party would just kill him then and there and be done with it. 

“Never seen any kind of magic that does this before,” Sabine said quietly, closing Cyril’s eyes with gentle hands. “Why him? He posed the least threat.”

“He was our healer and the only one casting barriers,” Torres said, and Val sent a silent prayer up to the gods for Torres’ ability to put two-and-two together and save his hide. “Maybe the ‘Vints wanted an immediate effect but we were keeping them occupied. Damn shame.”

“We’ll have to report all of this when we get back to camp,” Isa muttered, and pointed at Cyril’s body. “Valerian, can you carry him? The others are gonna be heavier with their armour, they’ll need a couple people.”

Val nodded and stood, stooping to pull one of Cyril’s arms over his shoulder and dragging the mage’s corpse up with him. 

The trek back to camp was silent, apart from the grunts of exertion from everyone in the remaining party as they lugged the deadweight bodies across rolling dunes of sand and crumbling juts of rock. The moment they reached the Inquisition tents, just before nightfall, everyone was already peeling off their armour and accepting the full waterskins and packs of rations offered to them. Val grabbed his own share and sat at the edge of camp, away from the others. The food on his lap remained untouched - he was too preoccupied with the feeling of Cyril’s blood literally on his hands, and the way he’d lost control and brutally killed Alberic. 

The latter had it coming to him, of course - Val didn’t feel guilty about the magister’s death. But he was disturbed by how easily he’d been goaded - it took a lot to rattle him, and the bastard had managed to push all of his buttons. If Val wanted to stay on top of his magic, and more importantly, on top of his emotions, he needed to stay in control of himself. Rushing headlong into battle without paying heed to the plan of combat and ignoring his comrades was a rookie mistake that got you killed. Privately, he agreed with Isa and Sabine that he’d fucked up - he should have known better with the years of experience under his belt. It was embarrassing, not to mention dangerous, to appear unhinged or impulsive in front of his own party. Working in the Inquisition meant being a team player, whether he liked it or not, and he needed allies, not enemies, in the months to come. 

On the other hand… Val was still fuming over Isa’s blatant dismissal of him and his reasons for killing Alberic. It was easy, so _incredibly_ easy, for anyone who wasn’t an elf or a mage to brush off his personal history and assume that he was just foolish instead of reliving his own trauma. Free people, no matter where they came from, would never be able to see what Val had seen, feel the same things he felt. It wasn’t just a case of acting stupid and rushing ahead; it was trying to wrestle with the sting of old wounds and the thick lump of fear that still sat in his chest. Would Isa have preferred he simply ran off, losing another member of the party, instead of taking down an enemy? Because Val had been terrified - he’d been a moment away from turning tail and abandoning his team, if only to get away from the memories. It was fight or flight, and they’d all been damn lucky Val had chosen the former of the two. 

Cyril, though, was another story entirely. _That_ had been stupid, _beyond_ stupid - any number of outcomes could have happened instead of the one Val was left with. His fellow mage could have survived the knife wound and alerted the others; he could have fought back and wounded Val; he could have kept Val’s secret to himself and put him in serious danger when they returned to camp. However, the more he mulled it over, even though he was reasonably confident he made the right call, Val couldn’t help but feel that his moral compass had changed. Sure, he could have justified Cyril’s death as a matter of survival, but even if the mage had managed to report him, Val might have been able to wheedle his way out of the situation. He didn’t have to kill the man. 

It was no longer just about survival. With Alberic out of the picture, there were very few people in Thedas who wanted him dead - he wasn’t running away from anything anymore, but towards something instead. Val was on a crash-course, he knew now. Killing Cyril hadn’t been the first sign, but it had been what slotted all the puzzle pieces together. What he was becoming, he wasn’t sure of yet, but as he watched his party talk quietly around the campfire and pass around food and wine, almost oblivious to his absence, he realised his place wasn’t going to be with the Inquisition, not forever. 

Something else was calling him, something older and more powerful, and to his surprise, he wasn’t afraid of it anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just as a side note, the opinions voiced in this fic don't reflect my own regarding DA lore and canon. this is told entirely from Val's perspective, so his own prejudices and worldviews shine through a lot. hopefully that clears some things up!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs for this chapter: implied sex because i do NOT write smut (that gets published, anyway), slightly dubious consent as both characters are tipsy when they agree to sleep together. also DA-typical racism.
> 
> the chapter where people are actually nice to val. mostly.

They didn’t spend longer than three weeks in the Western Approach; with three of their party members dead and the Inquisitor mostly spearheading the missions now, Val and his team were only deployed for simple reconnaissance or to collect rare herbs. Their days were full of exhausting climbs through sand and arid mountains, and their nights fending off curious hyenas and on one occasion, a very aggressive quillback, from their campsite. It was clear from the first day after the Venatori Incident that no one really wanted to be there, with Isa and Sabine doggedly leading the party through each of their missions in the Approach, and Torres and Val trailing behind trying to find a sense of normalcy. To say it was awkward would have been an understatement; beyond brief summaries of requisition orders and pointing out a certain spot on the map, no one really spoke to each other at length. By the end of their stint in the Approach Val was actually looking forward to being back at Skyhold - at least there he wouldn’t be waking up to scorpions in his pants or a hyena trying to tear a hole in his tent. 

They had all long-since filed the necessary reports on the deaths of their party members, and the bodies had been returned to their families for burial. Val wondered if the Inquisition had told Cyril’s family he’d been killed with blood magic, or if they chose to conveniently leave that part out. As the days passed and the shock began to wear off, Val spent most nights lying awake in his tent, wondering if he really had made the right call. Immediately after the event, he’d been confident he was in the right, but with a week or two of sitting with it, he wasn’t as sure. Of _course_ murder was wrong, but he’d be a hypocrite if he tried to pretend he didn’t do it if the coin was enough and he had cause. Iron Bull had been right all those months ago - he _did_ get a kick out of it, in some twisted sort of way. But turning the blade on those who would have hurt others had he stood idly by - that had to count for something, right? Despite the bloodshed and killing, he’d still saved people - _innocent people_. Didn’t that sort of thing balance out?

But Cyril had been innocent. Yes, his opinions on elves were outdated and he was far too entrenched in Orlesian propaganda for his stance on Thedosian politics to count for anything, but he’d never done anyone any harm. Being brought up to hate and fear blood mages was normal in ninety-percent of the continent, even among many non-magisters in Tevinter. He was just following what he believed, and Val couldn’t fault that. 

At the same time, however… Val’s priority, from the moment he was taken from his clan, had been to put himself and his own safety first. If the Inquisition and Cyril had taught him anything so far, it was that it was dangerous to reveal his hand to anyone south of the Tevinter border - perhaps even anyone in Thedas who wasn’t a practitioner of blood magic. 

He wondered, then, if he should even be with the Inquisition at all; if all that was keeping him there was Lirene - and she was perfectly capable of fending for herself - what purpose did he serve by remaining except running the risk of exposing himself? The world was unravelling, yes, but the Inquisition was at the _center_ of it all in its effort to bring about peace. A smart man would turn tail and get out before things became far more complicated. 

Val spent the journey back to Skyhold wondering how he would break this to Lirene, and to Solas, who he’d formed a surprisingly fulfilling friendship with. No doubt both of them would encourage him to stay, to play a role in the events unfolding. He knew he was a good fighter, and a better mage - he could be an important asset to the Inquisition. There were other benefits to staying, too - the money, first and foremost, but also having a chance to confront his (metaphorical, hopefully) demons and properly establish the kind of person he wanted to be. 

Val stepped through the gates of Skyhold even more uncertain of his future, but sure of who he wanted to speak to first - Solas, whom he hoped would be in his usual haunt at the base of the rotunda. As luck would have it, he was, nose buried in a book thicker than Val’s arm. The elf glanced up when he entered and smiled slightly, though his gaze kept pulling back to the tome on his desk. 

“Valerian,” he greeted, voice slightly muffled by the pile of papers and artifacts in front of him. “I am pleased to see you’ve returned from the Western Approach in one piece.”

“So am I,” Val answered honestly, stepping around the edge of the desk to peer over Solas’ shoulder. 

“What are you reading? It looks complicated.”

“A collection of reports by various First Enchanters on their interactions with the Fade and the use of spirit magic,” Solas told him, all in one breath. “Much is inaccurate or misrepresented.”

“Disappointing but unsurprising?” Val offered, and Solas nodded, his brow furrowing as he read through a passage that particularly displeased him and made a note of his own corrections on a separate piece of parchment. When Val continued to hover anxiously over him, he put down his quill and turned to look up at him, one eyebrow quirked. 

“Was there something you needed, Valerian? This text requires no small amount of focus.”

“Ah - yes. _Ir abelas_. I was hoping to ask you about - well, something happened in the Approach with a group of Venatori.”

“Oh?”

“We were fighting them - we had to clear out a section of the Approach so Inquisition forces could move in to occupy it. I… made a mistake, with my magic, and someone died because of it.”

“That is unfortunate, but a necessary risk any magic practitioner takes when in combat. Does it trouble you?”

Val sighed. 

“Yeah. It does. I keep second-guessing myself, I suppose. If I hadn’t made that mistake, it might’ve gotten _me killed_ , though, and I had to make this split-second decision to save myself or let the person die. I don’t know if I made the right call.”

“You are asking whether it is better to protect yourself or protect the members of your party.” 

It wasn’t exactly a question, but Solas was clearly waiting for an answer. Val gave him a short nod.

“Yes. I guess I am. Was it selfish of me?”

“Battle is a complicated affair, Valerian. Perhaps, from an objective standpoint, it may have been _morally_ better to save this person’s life, but you cannot change the past - only the future. Making decisions in the heat of the moment shows that you are able to improvise and think on your feet - a skill even a seasoned warrior may struggle with. That you were able to decide on a course of action and follow through speaks to your abilities, regardless of whether others may interpret them as brash or irresponsible.”

“So you think that putting myself first was a good idea?”

“I think that equal measures of selfishness and self _less_ ness will serve you well during your stay in the Inquisition,” Solas answered evenly. “It is up to you which you choose, and when. If in the long run, the life of one individual made it possible for you to continue as a valuable member of the Inquisition, consequently saving hundreds more potential lives, then yes - I believe you ‘made the right call’.”

Slightly cryptic, but it was the answer Val was looking for. He breathed a sigh of relief, grateful to have a voice of reason easing his conscience and balancing his mixed emotions. 

“ _Ma serannas, hahren_.”

“ _Te’telsilemah’re, da’len_. It is no trouble.”

“I’ll let you get back to your book, Solas.”

Solas hummed in answer, giving Val a small, fond smile as he left the rotunda, walking back into the Great Hall and out the main doors and beelining towards the tavern. 

—

He was pleased to find Lirene in her usual seat near the back, having a drink with a couple of Inquisition soldiers. The moment she spotted Val, she shot out of her seat and barrelled towards him, easily lifting him into a bear hug. 

“Next time, we’re getting assigned together,” she assured him after checking him over for any fresh scars. She had two new ones of her own - twin claw marks across her collarbone, which she explained were from a surprise bear attack in the Hinterlands. She then smacked Val in the side of the head for laughing at her. 

“Bears are really quiet! The fuckers will just appear out of nowhere. If I didn’t know better I’d say the things popped right out of the Fade.”

“Bears are the loudest animals in Ferelden,” Val told her.

“No, I’m telling you - they _sneak_ , they can sense our presence. They smelled fear and they knew when to strike.”

“You probably scared them with all your armour clanking.”

Lirene looked scandalised, clutching a hand to her heart. 

“I don’t _clank_! I’m like a shadow in the night. No one sees me coming.”

“Except bears, apparently.”

She punched him good-naturedly in the arm, chuckling, and dragged him into a quieter corner to catch up. While Val had been gone, she’d been busy in the Hinterlands building watchtowers and clearing out the remnants of the apostate mages and rogue Templars. It had been tedious work, running back and forth over such a large territory with small chance of reward, but she’d been paid handsomely for her time and used the coin to buy a shiny new breastplate that actually fit. They ended up in the barracks so Lirene could actually show off her armour, and it was only when Val was finished oohing and aahing over the craftsmanship that she sat him down properly and asked him about what he’d been up to.

“Uh,” Val began eloquently, and launched into a brief summary of his mission in the Western Approach. When he reached the part about Alberic, he paused, swallowing thickly, and he felt Lirene’s hand on his arm. Her voice was low when she spoke, full of carefully-controlled anger.

“Did you kill him?”

“Yes.”

“Did you make it hurt?”

Val smiled hollowly. 

“He couldn’t even scream.”

“The Maker has a sense of irony, it seems,” she replied, and scooted closer to Val. “Come here.”

He let her pull him into a hug, leaning his head on her shoulder. She pressed her lips to his hair and held him, just letting him breathe. It was moments like these, just the two of them in each other’s company, that made Val remember why he agreed to come here in the first place. Lirene was, and he hoped always would be, his closest friend. If she asked him nicely, he’d follow her into hell. It also reminded him of why he’d sought her out in the first place.

“Lirene..”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know if the Inquisition is right for me.”

She let go of him, holding him back at arm’s length so she could study his face. Her expression was unreadable. 

“Why?”

“Seems like every decision I make drags me deeper into shit. I never thought I’d see another Tevinter magister again, and there’s one in Skyhold and I had to kill a pack of them. The magic people do here is strange, the language is strange, the people are so…”

“Strange?” She finished for him, wryly. He huffed a laugh.

“They have this - this clear plan, of how they’re going to stop all these evil things from happening, like it’s black and white, no room for the grey area where all the actual _people_ are. They want to be heroes. I can’t be that for them.”

“Oh, Val.” Lirene took his hands in hers and smoothed a thumb over his scarred palms. 

“You don’t have to be a hero. Not everyone is made for that. I won’t force you to stay, but… I think you could do some good here, even if it’s just changing one person’s life. We both could. Just because we don’t have a glowing hand or connections to the Divine or a famous name doesn’t mean we can’t make a difference. That’s what this whole thing is about, right? Becoming the change we should have seen a long time ago. Little by little. We all start as nothing, but we can _be_ something. It doesn’t have to always be the hero.”

Val sniffled and wiped his eyes, chuckling softly. 

“I hate it when you get poetic on me.”

“Nah, you love it. C’mere, bring it in.” She pulled him into another hug, and he returned it, grateful that she knew when to stop asking questions and just be a presence for him, in that moment. 

“The Maker put us here for a reason. Maybe your gods have plans for you, too.” She released him and stood, stretching. “Right now, I think it’s safe to say that plan is a strong drink and some good company. What do you say?”

“Good plan.” Val stood as well, linked his arm through hers, and followed her back to the tavern. 

—

Since Val didn’t typically drink, he vastly underestimated how much alcohol it would actually take to affect him. Two-and-a-half drinks into the night and he was feeling pleasantly buzzed, enjoying the warmth from the tavern fireplace and the thrum of music and loud chatter. Lirene had graciously offered to cover his tab for the evening, which meant Val was having a very simple, very _safe_ ale instead of whatever his friend was drinking - it _looked_ like booze of some kind, but smelled like it should be used to shine shoes. Either way, she was clearly enjoying it - or perhaps the shoe-shiner had gone to her head and she couldn’t even taste it anymore. 

“That man over there has been making eyes at you all night,” Lirene stage-whispered as she finished her current drink. Val followed her gaze and it landed on a man sitting at the bar. He was human, reasonably attractive with a mop of brown hair and two-day-old stubble. He spotted Val looking and grinned, giving him a small wave. 

“You should go introduce yourself,” Lirene urged, giving Val a gentle push. He choked on his ale. Luckily, it didn’t come out his nose. That would have been embarrassing.

“What? No. _No_ , absolutely not.”

“Aww. Not your type?”

“My _type_ is people I can get to know first. I don’t do one-night stands.”

“And I don’t drink - uh.. Whatever this is, but here we are. Trying new things.”

“You’re very drunk.”

“And you’re not! Who knows, you could be sent to - to the Fallow Mire tomorrow, where you’re _definitely_ not going to get laid. It’s cold and wet and there are dead things everywhere. I don’t think you’re into that. Are you into that?”

Val dragged a hand down his face. 

“If I talk to him, will you stop bothering me about it?”

Lirene nodded seriously, her eyes a little glazed. 

“Swear on my honour. Go get ‘im.”

Val took a deep breath and drained his ale, before standing up and picking his way over to the bar. The man looked a bit relieved when Val sat down next to him. 

“I was wondering when you’d figure it out. Can I get you a drink?”

“Just water, please. I’ve had enough already.”

“Not of me, I hope.” The man smiled and called over Cabot, who looked between the two of them and rolled his eyes as he handed Val a glass of water. Val snorted. 

“Not yet. I’m Val.”

“Tomas. You from Ferelden?”

“Free Marches,” Val lied, too tired to have the whole Tevinter conversation again. 

“Oh, right. You a mercenary? You don’t really look the type. No offence.”

“None taken. I’m - a mage.” Val cringed, waiting for the ball to drop, but it never did. Tomas didn’t appear too bothered - though in fairness, he looked a little drunker than Val was. 

“Oh! Right, that makes sense. Listen, I’m a straightforward kind of man, so I’d rather not waste too much time with pleasantries. I leave tomorrow for Emprise du Lion, and I’m looking for someone to make a memorable night out of my last few hours in Skyhold. Interested?”

Val considered it. It was true, he wasn’t usually one to just sleep with anyone who offered, even if they were good-looking. He needed.. Well, a bit of an emotional connection first. But just this once, just for fun - it couldn’t hurt, right? Tomas was pleasant on the eyes, he didn’t seem like a complete asshole. Sure, he wasn’t romantically interested, but this wasn’t a romantic thing. It was transactional. Sort of. Besides, if he hated it, the man was leaving in the morning, and probably wouldn’t return to Skyhold for at least a month. Plenty of time to forget the awkwardness. 

“Alright. Sounds like fun.”

“You could at least act more enthusiastic about it,” Tomas teased, grabbing Val’s hand and leading him out of the tavern. Out of the corner of his eye, Val saw Lirene wink at him and raise her cup in a salute. 

—

Val woke up to someone shaking him awake. It took him a moment to fully process his surroundings, and the night before - oh. _Oh_. He sat up, rubbing the back of his neck and yawning, until Tomas elbowed him. 

“Listen, you need to go.”

Val blinked at him. 

“Pardon?”

“You need to get out of here. I have a few hours before I’m due at the gates and I need to get changed.”

“Surely it doesn’t take hours for you to put on clothes..?” Val almost laughed, until he saw Tomas’ guilty expression. 

“Actually.. I don’t want anyone to see me. With you.” 

_Ah_. There was the ball drop. Val stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“You were the one who propositioned _me_.” 

Tomas spluttered. 

“Yeah, but - look, I was drunk! We were both - drunk - and I’ll never hear the end of it if my mates know I slept with a kni - _ahem_. An elf. And a mage. A mage elf.”

Val didn’t even have the energy to be angry; he was just disappointed. 

“You need to get new mates.”

Tomas rolled his eyes and slid out of bed, pulling on his undershirt. 

“Sorry. You need to leave.”

“Oh, so it’s fine to stick your cock wherever you want, but the moment you have to face the consequences of your actions, you’re just gonna pretend it didn’t happen?” Val demanded, climbing out of bed himself and tugging on his own clothes. 

“It’s not personal, alright? I have a reputation.”

“Creators, you are _such_ an arse. I can’t believe I agreed to this.”

“We can just pretend it didn’t happen, then -”

“Or you could _apologize_ for calling me a knife-ear and then spend your trip to Emprise du Lion thinking about your shitty life choices.” Val jabbed a finger at him. “ _Shems_ like you are why elves are so paranoid about joining the Inquisition.”

Tomas opened and closed his mouth, startled into silence. Val finished getting dressed and shot him a glare. 

“Try not to get killed by Red Templars. Though I doubt they’d do much, since you’re already missing a spine.”

For a final touch, Val threw a pillow at Tomas, hard enough to smack him solidly in the face. While the human mumbled excuses, Val let himself out of the barracks and strode out into the weak morning sunlight. He scrubbed at his eyes, equal parts embarrassed and angry but reluctant to let anyone see how upset he was. What was that thing he’d said to Solas the day before? _Disappointed, but not surprised_. 

With a final noise of disgust, he flipped his middle finger at the barracks and headed to the Herald’s Rest for a mug of whatever the hell Lirene had been drinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, val is demisexual/demiromantic. as an ace-spectrum person myself who is sex-positive, i wanted to explore his sexuality a little - or at least, give yall some idea of who he’s interested in. obviously there is a range of ace people and being sex-positive is not a universal experience. all ace people are valid and who they do or don’t sleep with is no one’s business but their own. just don’t be a dick i guess? :P
> 
> Translations:  
> Ir abelas = [I am] sorry  
> Ma serannas, hahren = thank you/my thanks, elder  
> Te’telsilemah’re, da’len = don’t worry/do not worry [about it], little one


End file.
